


while the dream is being burnt

by OldSportSquared



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Can't disguise feelings while drunk, Confessing Feelings because Sam's Unconscious, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:09:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28906875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldSportSquared/pseuds/OldSportSquared
Summary: When drunk, the truth tumbles out. Sam's only ever heard it as a proverb, but he gets to see it live action.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 14
Collections: Bulletproof 20/21





	while the dream is being burnt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darlingargents](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingargents/gifts).



The smell in the room isn't so much gross, as nostalgic. Sam bitterly resents the fact sometimes, but he can't control his brain, can't control the olfactory triggered memories that summon hazy nights of summer at the scent of AXE body spray, pussy and the sharper, lighter scent of cheap beer, sold in pitchers. As long as he lives, he'll be hardwired to wake up to that smell, to turn over, seeking it. He's only a hairsbreadth from sleep, world filtering into his vision through a narrow sliver of open eyes. 

Dean's there, turned away, shedding his leather jacket, like a skin that doesn't fit him anymore, dropping it to the floor with a grunt. Sam can just about see Dean, outlined against the bathroom light, solid set of him blocking half of it, as he fumbles with his jeans, shucks his wallet,his phone, leaves his t-shirt on, takes off his socks, priorities all in order. Sits down on the bed, bare legs, covered chest, facing Sam like he can't look away. Something in Sam uncurls, hot, feverish, desperate. 

He doesn't blink, doesn't look away. Not from Dean, from the fondness on his face, the one he thinks he hides so well, the one he'd swear he never shows Sam, unless Sam's dying. All Sam ever has to do is look across the narrow space of the Impala and he'll see it, feel it dig into his chest and hold his heart in its clenched hand. 

In the haze, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, he watches, mouth dry, heart beating a tattoo along his ribcage, so loud he thinks Dean might hear it. Dean's very drunk. Sam has become a connoisseur over the years, of the ways in which Dean copes, and this is familiar, an old friend, $18 a bottle, $5 if you're buying shot by shot. $10 if you're buying for someone you'll fuck in a bathroom before crawling home to stare.

"Fuck," Dean says, so quiet, Sam can barely hear it, over the rattle of the heater, blowing hot dry air into the room. He doesn't have his face in his hands, he's looking at Sam. Brave in all the things that matter, that's his brother, and the knowledge sits keenly in Sam's gut. Dean moves cautiously, carefully, as though even half a bar down, he understands what he might lose. Brave, not foolish. Grazes a hand across Sam's mouth, his chin, tucks his hair back, as though even in his sleep, Sam might be bothered by it. 

Leans so close, that nothing could hear unless it got between them. Brushes a thumb down Sam's neck. "Christ Sammy," Dean says. Hesitates, too many years of not letting words escape unless they need to. 

Sam opens his eyes.


End file.
